


the scent of incense rising up from underneath the door

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Body Worship, Drug Use, M/M, Rimming, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: michael is all about compartmentalizing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> oh, comrades, ive missed you!!! it's been so long, hasnt it? i really wasnt expecting to come back to these two like this, but since all my friends and i have started our millionth replays, i found myself compelled to tread this ground again. this is a bit too generous with michael, maybe, as all my recent work has been, but im too sad irl for cold, distant, unforgiving michael. so here's michael being...really weird. this is kinda sorta (read: absolutely directly) inspired by my crazy obsession w Trevor's spine...but anyways, see you again soon!! 
> 
> xxoo,  
> canadianflower
> 
> ps. the title is from "[historic cemetery](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGKug8fiQjo)" by the front bottoms.

Michael doesn’t know how much he knows about Trevor.

It’s not an accident. Most details about him are in a part of his brain dedicated to staying alive: what makes Trevor angry? What makes him suicidal? What makes him go on a bender? What makes him kill? What, exactly, makes Trevor do what he does? All of this is carefully filed away, because it’s what’s kept Michael alive for the two and a half years he’s known Trevor. 

The rest of it--you know, what Trevor likes to drink, what he likes to eat, his habits and quirks--are thrown out, mostly, just white noise he has no use for. If pressed, he could summon up Trevor’s birthday, his feelings on his family, how he takes his coffee, but not much else. Which is fine. He doesn’t need all that.

But. He will admit, there’s a tiny, precious, secret part of his Trevor-knowledge that belongs in a place of sympathy, of love, of friendship in his brain. Times Trevor has cared for him when he was sick, or not pushed when he could have and probably wanted to, or even just brought him some good beer when he desperately needed it. He will not admit, however, that there is any information about Trevor in the part of his brain devoted to fucking. 

He knows how to fuck Trevor by sense alone. The scent, the taste, the sounds of Trevor are etched into some base part of his brain that, for the most part, he has no access to. He knows in his blood, in his bones that if he licks here, bites there, scratches this, Trevor will make this noise, will say that, will arch up into him like this. 

But there are times when he drinks too much tequila (god, he’s really got to stop drinking tequila) and he gets...curious. He thinks about the noises he ekes out of Trevor, about the shuddering of his muscles when he comes, the limits he could push him to if he had the nerve. He hates it. It’s too uncomfortable, too ugly, too Not Michael. Michael doesn’t think about fucking Trevor, he just does it. Like eating. Pissing. No big deal. Just one more need sated. 

And for the most part, that’s perfect for him. Michael is straight. One hundred percent heterosexual. Sure, he and Trevor have fucked around a lot, but all those are hurried, dark, unreal encounters. Michael puts him out of his mind. It’s not something to dwell on.

Except for one problem: Trevor has a gorgeous back. It’s crazy--Michael has never before or since been attracted to anyone’s back, of all things, but Trevor’s is broad and muscled and tanned, mercifully unblemished save for a tattoo or two and a precious handful of freckles. It’s hypnotizing and (most unfortunately) extremely masculine. 

He and Trevor are often in all states of dress; he’s seen Trevor without a shirt hundreds of times, and it’s usually fine. It’s just that he starts drinking and Trevor, being his somewhat uninhibited self, takes his clothes off and it’s hard for Michael to not pop a fucking boner. It’s worse when they’re on jobs; right now, it’s cold enough that they’re both in plenty of layers, but in the summer Trevor will be in tee-shirts (or less) and Michael will have to watch him take shot after shot, shoulders flexing, sweat rolling off his neck, firm and strong and--

Not that he thinks about any of that. Ever. At all. 

He doesn’t intend for it to happen, but the stars and Trevor bend to his will and one night deep into winter in an unfamiliar motel a hundred miles outside of Toledo, they don’t do any uppers at all. No speed, no coke, no crank. They drink a little, instead, and smoke some weed Trevor got from god knows who. 

And it’s _good_ weed. Michael is feeling relaxed and Trevor is pressed thigh-to-thigh with him while they pass the joint between them, both pretending to watch whatever it is that’s on TV but watching each other. The only noise in the room is the laugh track on a sitcom playing in the background, and the sun is setting through the cheap, broken plastic shutters on the window. It’s golden and warm in their room with the heat blasting, and Michael makes a decision. 

He rolls onto his side, sliding a hand into Trevor’s hair, pressing him down and holding him against the bed. Instantly, Trevor’s breath catches. Michael makes a show of taking a deep draw off the joint, waiting as Trevor drops his jaw open for Michael to exhale into. Michael breathes out and clouds of smooth smoke roll over Trevor’s face, fog-like and dark. Trevor sucks in, catching up every bit of it in his throat and holding, exhaling a tiny wisp in the space between them.

Michael kisses him. 

It’s not something he does often, but he just can’t help it. Trevor is so intoxicating there under him, his skin still tanned golden from too much time outside to be reasonably considered laying low, his stubble just coming in from where he shaved last night, his whole body thrumming and vibrating from Michael’s closeness to him alone. 

Trevor melts under him, boneless and easy as Michael licks into his mouth. He takes it slow, carding through Trevor’s (somewhat greasy) hair with one hand and rubbing his hip with the other. The sun sinks further beneath the horizon and Michael moves down to Trevor’s throat, leaving wet, fat hickeys as he goes. 

He pulls back for a breath and hands Trevor the still-smoldering joint. Trevor mimics him and inhales, but shuts his mouth and motions Michael in until their lips are connected again. Michael draws the smoke out of Trevor’s mouth and into his own, grinding against him at the same time with long, lazy rolls of his hips. They part and Trevor grins stupidly up at him, eyes lidded and red as he rubs himself on Michael’s thigh. Michael drops his head against Trevor’s shoulder, content to do this all night long. Trevor turns and nibbles at his neck. 

“I have some X.” Trevor mutters against Michael’s jaw. Fuck yeah.

“Get it.” Michael says. Trevor giggles at him. 

“You have to get off me, fatty.” He points out. Michael rolls off of him, settling into the sheets as Trevor trots from his bag to the bathroom to get toilet paper. When he emerges, he sit on the bed, legs thrown over Michael’s lap as he rolls the beans up, fingers still sure and quick even now. 

“Open up.” Trevor says and Michael indulges him, opening his mouth and letting Trevor place the parachute on his tongue obligingly. He swallows and watches Trevor do the same, only giving him time to work his throat once before he’s on him again, hooking one arm under Trevor’s legs and swinging him back and down onto the mattress, hovering over him and nibbling at his throat. 

Trevor’s in a giggly mood, it seems, twining his arms around Michael’s shoulders and laughing bright and sweet every time Michael makes landfall on his sensitive neck. It’s endearing, Michael allows himself to admit. He’s a little squirmy, too, but Michael is feeling generous and doesn’t mind playing with him, pinning him and making serious work of covering him in bites that are hard enough to bruise but not enough to hurt--well, not enough to hurt _Trevor_ \--sinking lower and lower as Trevor’s giggles turn to quiet moans. 

Then Michael is pushing up Trevor’s shirt, following the hem with his mouth, dragging his teeth over the muscles of Trevor’s stomach, his chest, the sparse, fine hairs that pepper him there, his fingers shoving the dirty thing up and off before he returns to the pillar of Trevor’s neck, laving attention on the already purpling bruises he left there minutes ago. He stays there for a moment, mouthing at his jaw before traveling back down to bite Trevor’s nipple, rolling the other between his fingers as Trevor groans and arches into his touch. 

He’s sweating and he needs more; the layer of cloth between them feels like a wall and Michael barely pulls back long enough to get his own shirt off before he’s back on him, Trevor dragging him in with desperate hands. He's is panting his name, fingers curling against his shoulders as Michael rolls their bodies together, shirtless and sweating, moving in time with Trevor’s hurried grinding. Michael grips his hips and forces him to slow down, laughing to himself as he urges Trevor to take it slow, babe. He doesn’t miss the way Trevor whimpers at the pet name and obeys without question. 

He slides his hands down, down, down to the button of Trevor’s jeans and toys with it for a moment, playing with the zip and licking Trevor’s collar bones while Trevor struggles not to fuck into his hand, drawing out the time before he flicks the button open and slips his hand around Trevor’s cock. Trevor gasps, air leaving him like he’s been punched as Michael strokes him steadily, the warm, silky heat of him pulsing in his palm. Michael allows himself for the briefest moment to know, god, yes, he loves this, he would spend the rest of eternity with Trevor’s dick in his hand if he could, and then he pushes the thought down and away and locks it up tight. He pulls his hand back, dragging Trevor’s pants down and returning to bite his neck one more time. 

“Turn over.” Michael says. Trevor does it without question, thighs parted and ass in the air. Michael sits back and shoves his own pants off, and Trevor reminds him impatiently that there’s lube in the side table.

Michael grabs it, but leaves it by Trevor’s head. He wants a moment to look at Trevor like this, his whole body exposed here in the light for him. He starts with Trevor’s hairline, kneeling over him and planting tiny, chaste kisses against it. The nape of his neck is bared, every muscle tight with anticipation. Michael rakes his gaze over him, drags his nails over Trevor’s arms. 

God, his back. Michael can feel himself coming up as he moves to run his hands over the expanse of his shoulders, over a tattoo of a clover that says “stay lucky” that he got a year ago after they knocked over a casino, over a tiny, ragged scar from who knows when, over a freckle and down, down, down to the center. The divot where Trevor’s spine rests is deep and defined and Michael wants desperately to run his tongue over it. 

So he does it. He leans down and bites either side of the channel there, softer than he usually would, and then he sinks lower, just beneath the start of Trevor’s ribs and licks up all the way between his shoulders. He kisses there, too, then drags his tongue over every bit of skin he can reach, the taste of sweat and Trevor lingering in his mouth as he sucks and bites bruises into him. Michael hooks an arm under Trevor’s hips and pulls them flush together.

Shit, he wants to destroy him. He wants to crush them together until Trevor dissolves into his body. He wants to own him, to possess him. The urge is so strong it makes him dizzy for a long moment, and he has to lean his forehead against Trevor and catch his breath. His grip tightens unconsciously. He has to tell himself to let go, to lean back, to inhale.

He does. Shit, it must be the drugs. He’s so fucked up that he’s thinking about Trevor in weird ways. That’s all. He shakes his head out and focuses on Trevor again, leaning down more calmly, carefully moving his mouth slowly and throughly around Trevor, taking his time as he starts to shudder and gasp. Trevor is making this _noise_ , this whimpering, desperate whine that’s tearing out of him in bursts, louder each time Michael inches lower. His thighs are trembling under Michael’s hands, legs spread impossibly wide for him. He stops right at the top of Trevor’s ass, thinking for a moment.

He’s never done this before but he’s very, very, very high, and he wants to eat Trevor out. He only thinks about it for a moment, kneading the cheeks of Trevor’s ass in his hands before he thinks "fuck it" and pulls him open. Trevor yelps, but Michael is already on him, tongue circling him, dipping into him curiously. If Michael had ever thought about this (and he absolutely has not) then he would have thought this would be gross or unhygienic or something, and maybe it is gross and unhygienic, but he’s sort of really loving it. Between the way Trevor is keening his name and rolling his hips and the earthy, authentic taste of him, Michael is hooked.

Michael is quick to thrust the entirety of his tongue into Trevor, flattening it and twisting it in an effort to pull louder and louder groans out of him. He’s unforgiving in his movement, licking deep and sharp, kneading Trevor’s thighs with his hands until Trevor cries out. 

“Michael!” He practically sobs his name. He’s writhing in full, now, muscles rippling, his voice breathy and high. Michael brings one hand up and adds a single finger to the movement of his mouth, the other hand busy stroking Trevor’s thigh and keeping him from closing his legs around his head. Michael pulls back for a moment.

“I want to make you come like this.” Michael says, fingers still pumping steadily in and out of him. Trevor mewls and shudders, turning his head over his shoulder as his eyes roll in his face. Michael’s cock twitches.

“God, Michael, _please_ , you will, you will, don’t stop, please--” Michael is already back between Trevor's legs with his tongue joining his fingers inside of him as Trevor cuts himself off with a groan, toes curling by Michael’s side. He’s fucking his hips back onto Michael’s face, fist wrapped in the loose, dirty sheets, knuckles white.

Michael plays Trevor’s body like an instrument; he thinks “come” and Trevor does it, arches into the mattress and cries out like it hurts, shaking violently beneath Michael’s hand. He takes Trevor through it, tonguing him as deeply as he can go, twisting and curling as he feels the contraction of Trevor’s muscles around him. 

Trevor is slick with his spit and trembling beneath him, his breath coming in uneven gasps as Michael mouths over the small of his back, up to his shoulder blades and to where his shoulder meets his neck, covering him with his body, hands wrapped around Trevor’s waist, fingers spread and settled between the notches of his ribs. He clenches his teeth to keep the awful secret from spilling out (he could love him, he might love him, he can’t love him) and rolls his hips down, grinding against Trevor’s ass. 

He rolls him over and of course, of _course_ Trevor still hard, because that’s just who he is, and Michael can’t help himself, not at all; he kisses him again, hard and deep, fumbling for the discarded lube and slicking his cock up before Trevor guides him inside, both of them moaning in tandem.

Trevor grips his wrists, panting and mewling in Michael’s ear as he finds his rhythm, slipping into him and feeling the familiar pleasure of the squeeze of Trevor’s insides (made for him, made for him alone), his hands going to Trevor’s waist to lift him into his lap as he sits back, using the leverage to thrust up with more power, more depth, just the way Trevor likes it. His legs are spread and Michael hitches one over his shoulder as he fucks into him, his hands wandering over his hips, his stomach, smoothing up across his sternum and to his chest, god, his chest, touching and stroking, circling back down to his ribs, clutching at how unbearably thin Trevor is. He can’t stop touching him. 

Trevor soaks up the attention like parched earth, head thrown back and mouth open, meeting Michael’s moves with languid gyrations of his hips as Michael’s name trickles out from between his lips. There’s come smeared over his stomach from before and the flushed red tip of his cock slaps his skin wetly every time Michael bottoms out inside of him. He can’t seem to catch his breath. There are tears in his eyes, drool in the corners of his mouth, his face flushed and eyes bright as he takes in huge gulps of air, every breath punched out of him by Michael's movements. 

Michael leans in, nibbling at the hollow of Trevor’s throat, feeling his moan vibrate against his lips before moving up to bite his jaw and then his mouth, thrusting slow and deep and moving his tongue the same way, Trevor’s taste in his mouth and now in Trevor’s. Michael grips Trevor’s waist and digs his fingers in, imagining his hands plunging through him, being joined in some gory, terrible way. The thought almost overcomes him, almost chews him up, but Trevor gasps his name when he moves the right way and hits his prostate and Michael is jolted into the moment. 

Trevor’s mouth is bitten and pink, his hair is tangled and everywhere, and he’s looking fucked out of his mind. His pupils are huge. Michael stares at him and tries madly not to come, but fuck, he can’t deny that Trevor is gorgeous, has crazy sex appeal, that Trevor makes him hard and makes him come. Michael’s hand snakes between them to grip Trevor’s cock.

Trevor's eyes are welling with tears; it's not the first time Michael has seen it. When Trevor gets too sensitive he gets like this; not crying, exactly, just leaking. Something dark and sadistic in him loves it, loves how wrecked and hungry Trevor looks, loves the shining wetness on his face as he tries to gather the words to beg Michael to keep going, to never stop, to fuck him forever and ever and break him if he has to. Trevor is trying to push down on Michael's cock and thrust up into his hand at the same time, out of his mind with sensation, and that does it for Michael. 

“C’mon,” He urges Trevor, stroking him in time with his thrusts. “C’mon, baby, let go. Do it for me, come for me, T.” 

Trevor obeys.

His nails are digging into Michael’s flesh hard enough to draw blood and he’s got tiny tracks of tears running down his face and into his hair, and his whole body is spasming with unbelievable violence. He uses the last of his breath to pant that he loves him, god, Michael, he loves him so fucking much. Come drools out of him in lazy stripes, coloring his stomach. Michael isn’t far behind; he gives in to the tightness in his middle and follows it, fucking into Trevor and bottoming out, toes curling as he groans his name and comes in him, eyes fluttering shut against the look of pure adoration on Trevor’s face.

Slowly, Michael rolls off him, still buzzing faintly. The sun is long gone, leaving them with just the glow of the TV and one solitary street light to illuminate the room. Michael flings his arm over his face, his breath still coming fast. Trevor sits up next to him, presumably for a tissue or a shirt to clean himself with. 

“Lemme do a line and then we can go again.” Trevor says. Michael grins, despite himself and raises a hand, a tiny gesture that communicates “gimme a minute, then I will.” Trevor ignores him. The bag rustles. A lamp goes on. Michael remains lying on the bed, his breath coming uneven.

Trevor loves him.

All Michael can think is “Don’t.”


End file.
